The morning air was still cool, not yet warmed by the rising sun. Dew clung to the edges of the wood, and the surface of the water shimmered faintly below the treehouse — untouched, unbroken except for the single, snaking vine that stretched from the platform into the depths.

  Arya stirred beneath his makeshift towel, blinked a few times, then sat up slowly. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and that’s when he noticed it.

  The rope.

  The ripples.

  “Uh… Vihaan?” he asked groggily. “Where’s Baba?”

  Vihaan didn’t turn. He was crouched by the balcony edge, both hands tightly gripping the thick giloy vine. His knuckles were white from holding it so long.

  “In the water,” he said calmly.

  Arya stood up faster now, moving to his side. “What do you mean ‘in the water’? What’s he doing down there?”

  Vihaan glanced over, jaw clenched but steady. “Testing something.”

  Arya frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

  Vihaan finally looked at him and gestured to the vine. “It’s Giloy. A kind of medicinal plant. Our ancestors planted it here a long time ago — it’s grown with the tree ever since. Dad figured out that if you clean it out, it’s hollow inside. Long enough to reach the bottom.”

  Arya blinked. “So… wait. You’re telling me he’s using it like a giant straw?”

  Vihaan nodded. “To breathe. He’s testing if it works — if it really can take him to the bottom and back. We might need it.”

  Arya was quiet for a moment. He looked out at the vast water again, then at the trembling rope in Vihaan’s hands. A breath escaped him — part surprise, part disbelief.

  “That old man,” Arya murmured. “He’s crazy.”

  But Vihaan saw the worry in his brother’s eyes.

  Beneath the water, everything was still.

  The sunlight above barely reached this deep, and only a faint glow trickled down from the surface. The giloy vine pulsed gently in Dad’s mouth, each breath a slow, measured draw. He moved with care, both hands guiding his descent along the side of Anant Vriksh.

  His eyes scanned what little he could see — outlines of rooftops below, long-lost homes, half-submerged trees like ghosts of a world forgotten.

  But his thoughts weren’t on the ruins.

  They were on his sons.

  Just yesterday, they were teasing each other in the rice fields. Arya glued to his phone, complaining about the sun. Vihaan, always quiet, always watching.

  But this morning, Arya was diving into work, leading without hesitation. Vihaan stood with him, steady, reliable. In just one day, the weight of the world had pressed down on their shoulders — and somehow, they carried it.

  Dad's chest tightened, and not from the pressure.

  He was proud.

  But that pride came with a shadow.

  Because he couldn’t do much anymore. Couldn’t be the one charging ahead. His bones ached more than they used to, and the climb had left him winded. Watching Arya take control had filled him with quiet admiration… and guilt. He wasn’t ready to be left behind. Not yet.

  That’s why, late last night, while his sons slept under a dark, silent sky, Dad stared at the ceiling, thinking. Turning possibilities over and over in his head.

  And then he remembered the giloy.

  It grew along the tree’s inner bark. Always had. Used for medicine — fever, wounds, infection. His father once told him the old ones believed it had more properties, depending on how it grew. And here, wrapped around Anant Vriksh, it had grown longer, thicker, stronger than he’d ever seen.

  Maybe the tree had blessed it.

  Maybe it was just luck.

  Either way, it was something he could do. A way he could help.

  And he would — even if it meant risking a dive into the unknown.

  Back above, Arya leaned on the balcony rail beside Vihaan, staring down at the endless stretch of water.

  “Are you sure he’s okay?”

  Vihaan didn’t answer right away. He just kept holding the vine — tighter than ever.

  Ripples broke the still surface of the water.

  Vihaan leaned forward, eyes scanning the glimmering reflection until a shape emerged — slow but steady, arms pulling through the water. Moments later, their father surfaced, the long giloy vine still looped over his shoulder, its cut end clenched between his teeth like a lifeline.

  He swam to the platform edge and grabbed hold of the wood. Arya reached out, helping pull him up.

  Dad sat on the edge, water streaming off him, his breath controlled but heavy. He pulled the vine free from his mouth and set it down beside him like a tool freshly tested.

  “It works,” he said simply.

  Arya blinked. “That’s it? Just ‘it works’? What are we even going to use it for?”

  Before Dad could reply, Vihaan stepped forward, his voice calm and clear.

  “With it, we can search underwater for supplies,” he said. “Especially food. Packaged stuff. If we find a general store or a supermarket down there… sealed plastic cans — it might still be good.”

  Dad looked at him, eyebrows raised. A brief silence passed, and then the corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile.

  “Correct,” he said. “Didn’t even need to explain. Good.”

  He exhaled and leaned back on his hands, staring out at the sea of water around them. “I don’t know how long we can survive this… but we won’t back down without a fight.”

  Arya sat beside him, water dripping from his towel. “Damn right we won’t.”

  Vihaan nodded, his hands still holding the vine. He looked out over the horizon — quiet, unbroken, and vast. Then he said, “How about we build a raft? Or maybe a proper boat. Something that can take us farther. We could check nearby villages. Even cities, if we get lucky. The more we move, the more we might find.”

  Arya snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Just floating around here won’t do much. We need to explore.”

  Their father’s eyes stayed in the distance. He didn’t speak immediately, just watched the faint waves roll. Then he said, “It’s a good idea. A strong one. But…”

  He looked up at the sky, squinting slightly. “I don’t know how the weather’s going to react. Whatever happened to the world… the climate should’ve collapsed by now. Heat. Cold. Storms. But it hasn’t. Everything’s too still.”

  Arya raised a brow. “So, what — you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

  Dad shrugged. “Don’t know. But until we do, we build smart. Safe.”

  Then he stood, water dripping from his soaked clothes. “Now come on, Arya. Get ready. We’ve got work to do.”

  Arya groaned but stood up beside him. “Let me dry off first at least, old man.”

  Their father smirked. “Dry off while hauling wood. That’s your towel now.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Vihaan smiled, just faintly, as he coiled the giloy vine and set it aside.

  For the first time since the world disappeared, they had a direction.

  Their father clapped his hands together once, drawing both sons’ attention.

  “Alright. Here’s the plan,” he said, still standing by the platform’s edge. “I’ll head underwater and start looking for supplies — anything edible, especially packed food.”

  He turned to Vihaan. “You’ll stay here. Watch the giloy vine. Keep it steady, like you did before. If anything feels off, pull.”

  Vihaan gave a quiet nod.

  Then their father pointed at Arya. “You… gather wood. Big, thick logs — strong enough to carry weight. We need them for the raft. Use the coil ropes from the wall to tie them together and pull them in from the edge. Stack whatever you can find — even if it’s floating out a bit farther.”

  Arya raised an eyebrow. “So, the tree man dives again, little brother becomes lifeguard, and I get to be the lumberjack. Cool.”

  Their father smirked. “You’re catching on.”

  “But first,” he added, brushing water off his arms, “let’s eat. We’ve got some roti left from last night, and I’ve still got those chopped veggies. I’ll mix it all up and make some dhokli.”

  Arya’s face lit up. “Yes. That I’m down for.”

  Vihaan smiled softly. “It smells like home.”

  Their father walked toward the small cooking area, but paused halfway and turned to Arya.

  “Before I forget — empty that backpack. I’ll need it underwater to store whatever I find.”

  Arya gave a mock salute. “Aye, captain.”

  As Arya rummaged through the bag, tossing out rope, an empty water bottle, and a few scraps of paper, their father set to work with the pan. Oil sizzled as he tossed in leftover roti pieces, adding onions, tomatoes, green chilies, and a handful of ground spices. The aroma quickly filled the air — sharp, spicy, and nostalgic.

  Vihaan walked up beside him and lowered his voice. “Baba, we should tie a rope to the backpack. That way, when you’re done filling it, you don’t have to carry it all the way back. I’ll just pull it up.”

  Their father paused mid-stir, looked at him, then nodded thoughtfully.

  “Smart,” he said, placing a hand gently on Vihaan’s head. “Very smart.”

  The treehouse had rope everywhere — some coiled neatly in corners, others still knotted along the walls. Their ancestors had used it to move goods up from the ground, back when climbing the entire height with supplies would’ve been impossible.

  Now, those old ropes would carry something else: hope.

  The dhokli was hot, spicy, and full of warmth — the kind that lingered long after the first bite.

  They gathered in a loose circle on the floor, the treehouse creaking softly underfoot, the scent of cooked spices wafting through the open air. Vihaan sat cross-legged with his plate in hand, already halfway through his meal. Arya, after placing the now-empty backpack near the wall, hovered by the balcony, scanning the still waters below for usable wood.

  But the smell finally dragged him in.

  He walked over, grabbed his plate from his dad, and dropped onto the floor with a tired grunt.

  "Still confused," Arya said between mouthfuls, "how there’s so much water… and it’s drinkable."

  Their father, mid-chew, paused. His brow furrowed. He looked up slowly.

  “Wait,” he said. “How do you know it’s drinkable?”

  Arya blinked. “Huh?”

  “You said it’s drinkable. How do you know?”

  “Oh,” Arya shrugged. “I accidentally drank a little yesterday. When I was gathering wood. Slipped and fell into it, and some went in my mouth. Tasted clean. Like tap water at home. I didn’t feel anything weird after it, so I didn’t think much of it.”

  Their father stared at him for a long second, stunned into silence. Then he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his beard.

  “Even if it seems clean,” he said finally, “don’t drink it again. Not unless I boil it first. We don’t know what’s in there. Might be something you don’t notice right away. Better safe than sorry.”

  Arya lifted both hands. “Alright, alright. Got it.”

  Vihaan nodded in agreement and looked up from his food. “How do you think so much water came here in the first place?”

  His voice was quiet — but not out of fear. Just thoughtful.

  “It didn’t come like a flood,” he added. “There was no wind. No rain. No chaos. It just… appeared. Rose slowly. Like it was always meant to be here.”

  He paused. “Do you think it was a disaster? Or something else?”

  Their father still went.

  His eyes lowered toward the floor, and for a long moment, he didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. And this time, there was no strength behind the words. Only honesty. “I don’t know what happened.”

  Silence settled again. Just the quiet sound of chewing and distant water lapping against the tree’s base.

  Then Arya cleared his throat and leaned back. “What if…” he began dramatically, waving his spoon, “some giant sea creature cried so hard it drowned the world?”

  Vihaan snorted. “That’s your theory?”

  “Or maybe the Earth just got tired of land. It said, ‘You know what? Full reset. Let’s go aquatic this time.’”

  Their father chuckled under his breath. It was small, but it was the first laugh since everything changed.

  “Keep those ideas coming,” he said. “Maybe one of them’s right.”

  After the last bite of dhokli, they cleaned up in silence. Plates were stacked, the leftover spices carefully stored, and the fire was covered.

  Their father stood and stretched his arms. “Alright. Let’s get to it.”

  Three pairs of feet shuffled across the old wood.

  And just like that, it was time to face the day.

  Their father picked up the thick giloy vine, bringing the carved end to his lips.

  Without a word, he handed the other end to Vihaan and gave a small nod — not one of farewell, but of trust. Then, with a casual wave of his hand, he stepped off the edge of the platform and disappeared beneath the water.

  Arya stood nearby, stretching his arms before following suit. “Might as well make it dramatic,” he grinned, and with an exaggerated salute, jumped after him, mimicking his father's dive.

  He splashed awkwardly, resurfaced flailing a little — then froze.

  “Vihaan!” he shouted, spitting out water. “I forgot the rope!”

  Vihaan laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed a coiled rope from the pile and tossed it over the edge.

  “You’re hopeless,” he chuckled.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Arya muttered, snatching it mid-float.

  Without wasting time, Arya swam toward a cluster of logs he had spotted earlier while scanning from the balcony. They drifted lazily in the sunlight, thick and worn, perfect for a raft. Arya reached them, tied the rope tight, and gave a satisfied nod.

  Meanwhile, Vihaan watched his father sink deeper and deeper, his body shrinking in the distance like a fading shadow. The vine gently pulsed in Vihaan’s grip, a lifeline stretching between worlds.

  Below, the world was quiet.

  As his father swam downward, a strange calm settled in his chest. Last time, he hadn’t gone far. Just enough to test the pipe.

  But now, he was diving with a purpose.

  And something was… different.

  The pressure wasn’t increasing the way it should’ve. Even as he descended far deeper than he ever had, his chest didn’t tighten. His ears didn’t ache. The temperature remained oddly steady — cool, but bearable.

  This isn’t nature, he thought. It’s not a flood. It’s not man-made.

  This is something else.

  His mind drifted to the stories — the ones whispered by elders and laughed off by adults. Of gods who held oceans in their palms. Of ancient battles where the sky wept and mountains sank.

  He didn’t know what had happened.

  But he knew one thing for sure.

  It was magic.

  He finally reached the place he had once called home.

  Their house stood quietly under the water, the wooden frame still intact. Furniture floated aimlessly around it. A few clay pots bobbed near the roof. It was eerie — like time had frozen the moment the water arrived.

  He swam inside, navigating the familiar layout. In the kitchen shelves, sealed packets of lentils, rice, biscuits, and old snack packs remained. He stuffed everything he could into his backpack. Not much — but every bit mattered.

  Once done, he swam outside and turned toward the local general store — the one he had walked to countless times, barefoot on cracked roads. Now it floated in silence, like the bones of a forgotten village.

  Inside, chaos reigned.

  Bags of chips drifted like jellyfish. Packets of biscuits clung to shelves. A few plastic containers floated in corners. He grabbed everything he could, then spotted an extra bag hanging by the counter.

  With practiced hands, he packed the second bag and looped the rope through the handle. Then he gave it a tug — once, then again.

  On the surface, Vihaan felt the pull.

  He tightened his grip. Gave a slight tug in return. Then, with a determined breath, he began pulling.

  The bag was heavy — soaked and stuffed — but he managed. Before starting, he had tied the giloy vine securely to the platform railing in a way that left the airway clear, just in case his father needed both hands underwater.

  As he dragged the bag up inch by inch, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

  Arya.

  His brother was swimming back toward the treehouse, pulling himself up with soaked hair and wild excitement on his face.

  “I tied a bunch of logs together!” Arya grinned. “At first I was gonna do it one by one, but then I thought — nah. Why swim back and forth every time?”

  Vihaan raised an eyebrow. “So you tied them all together?”

  Arya nodded proudly. “Yup. Let’s do the pulling!”

  The two brothers hauled the first bundle of logs toward the platform, hands burning, muscles aching — but neither stopped.

  Then the water broke again.

  Their father emerged, giloy vine still in his mouth. He blinked up at the platform, spotting his sons working in sync.

  A small smile tugged at his lips.

  He climbed up, dripping and silent, and watched them for a moment — pride welling up in his chest.

  That peace was short-lived.

  “Dad!” Arya groaned. “Can you help? I think I tied too many logs!”

  Their father let out a loud laugh. “I knew you would do something like this.”

  He walked to the edge, grabbed the rope, and joined them.

  Side by side, all three pulled together.

  The water shimmered around them. The logs bumped against the wood.

  And for a brief moment — surrounded by sun, sweat, and effort — they forgot the silence of the drowned world.

  Because here, on this tree, there was still laughter.

  Still family.

  Still hope.